Slaves of Obsession

“That’s right. You do know him.” That was a statement.

“Of course I do. But you wouldn’t have come here if you didn’t know that already,” Taunton answered. He frowned. “He’s an agent for shipping machinery and heavy goods, marble, timber, guns mostly … for Daniel Alberton—or he was, until Alberton was murdered.” His voice dropped. “What’s that to do with you? Are you in guns now?” He shifted his weight slightly.

Monk could smell fear, sudden and sharp, physical rather than the slow anxiety there had been before. Taunton’s imagination had taken a leap forward. When he spoke again his voice was a pitch higher, as if his throat had tightened till he could scarcely breathe.

“Is it something to do with you, Monk? Because if it is, I want no part of it!” He was shaking his head, stepping backwards. “Working for men who make their money slaving is one thing, but murder is something else. You can swing for that. Alberton was well liked. Every man’s hand’ll be against you. I don’t know where Shearer is, and I don’t want to. He’s a hard man, gives no quarter and asks none, but he’s no killer.”

Monk felt as if he had been hit so hard his lungs were paralyzed, starved for air.

Taunton’s voice rose even higher. “Look, Monk, what happened to Dundas was nothing to do with me. We made our deal, and we both kept our sides of it. I don’t owe you anything, and you don’t owe me. If you cheated Dundas, that’s between you and … and the grave, now. Don’t come after me!” He held up his hands as if to ward off a blow. “And I want nothing to do with those guns! There’s a rope waiting at the end of those. I’m not shipping them for you, I swear on my life!”

Monk found his voice at last.

“I haven’t got the guns, you fool! I’m looking for the man who killed Alberton. I know where the guns are. They’re in America. I followed them there.”

Taunton was stunned—nonplussed.

“Then what do you want? Why are you here?”

“I want to know who killed Alberton.”

Taunton shook his head. “Why?”

For a moment Monk could not answer. Was that really what he had been like, a man who did not care that three men had been murdered, or who had done it? Did his need to know require explaining?

Taunton was still staring at him, waiting for the answer.

“It doesn’t matter to you.” Monk jerked himself out of his thoughts. “Where is Shearer?”

“I don’t know! I haven’t seen him for close on two months. I’d tell you if I knew, just to get rid of you. Believe me!”

Monk did believe him; the fear in his eyes was real, the smell of it in the room. Taunton would have given up anyone, friend or foe, to save himself.

How had Monk ever been willing to trade with such a man? And worse than that, larger and far uglier, to make profit by trading with a man whose money came from slaving! Had Dundas known that? Or had Monk misled him, as Taunton implied?

Either thought made him sick.

He needed the truth, and he was afraid of it. There was no point in seeking an answer from Taunton; he did not know. What he believed of Monk was indictment enough.

Monk shrugged and turned on his heel, going out without speaking again. But as he walked past the man at the desk in the hall, his thoughts were not on Taunton, or Shearer, but on Hester and her face in his mind’s eye as she had spoken of slavery. To her it was unforgivable. What would she feel if she knew what he now knew of himself?

Already the thought of it bowed him down, crushed him inside. He walked out into the sun, and was cold.

9

FOR THE FIRST TIME since he had been married, Monk was reluctant to go home, and because he dreaded it, he did it immediately. He did not want time to think any more than he had to. There was no possibility of avoiding seeing Hester, meeting her eyes and having to build the first lie between them. Earlier in their knowledge of each other they had fought bitterly. He had thought her opinionated, quick-tongued and cold- natured, a woman whose passion was all bent towards the improvement of others, whether they wished it or not.

And she had thought him selfish, arrogant and essentially cruel. This morning he would have smiled at how happy they both were. Now it twisted inside him like a torn muscle, a pain reaching into everything, blinding all other pleasures.

He opened the door and closed it behind him.

She was there, straightaway, giving him no time to recompose his thoughts. All his earlier words fled.

She misunderstood, thinking it to do with his search along the river.

“You found something ugly,” she said quickly. “What is it? To do with Breeland? Even if he’s guilty, that doesn’t mean Merrit is.” There was so much conviction in her voice he knew she was frightened that somehow she was mistaken, and Merrit had played a willing part.

It was the perfect chance to tell her what he had really found, uglier than she could imagine, but about himself, not Breeland. He could not do it. There was a beauty in her he could not bear to lose. He remembered her in Manassas, bending over the soldier, half covered in blood, tending to his wounds, willing him to live, sharing his pain and giving him her strength.

What would she think of a man who had made money out of dealing with the profits of slaving? He had never been more ashamed of anything in his life, anything he knew about. Or more afraid of what it would now cost